


The Audience

by The Last Good Name (thelastgoodname)



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastgoodname/pseuds/The%20Last%20Good%20Name
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris was not the first time Miranda screwed Nigel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Audience

**Author's Note:**

> For the Devil Wears Prada Secret Santa Exchange 2008, for Telanu. Merry Christmas! Thanks to Chilly Flame and Zulu for beta help, and to Hayseed and Luthien for secret-keeping help. Special thanks to Nicolina04.
> 
> **References** : Finnerman, W. (Producer) and Frankel, D. (Director) (2006) The Devil Wears Prada United States: Fox 2000 Pictures.

"You are very talented," Miranda says; her voice is fluttery and soft and it worms its way into his gut. Nigel can't help but imagine her as a witch. Or a queen.

He swallows hard and manages to murmur, "Thank you."

"And intelligent," she continues.

He nods, wondering where she's going with this. The interview hasn't gone badly, but he kind of just wants to get out of here now. There's something about the way she looks at him, the way her eyes bore into him and her voice wraps around him and he really wants to go home and get drunk and forget he ever wanted to be Miranda Priestly's associate editor.

She says, "You could be very useful to me, in this or any future job I might have." She's looking into him now with those startlingly blue eyes. She's only 30 but her hair is already grey; it only makes her look more striking. She's not quite beautiful; it's more than that. She can command a room without speaking, can demand immediate obedience with a single glance. Her next words only confirm it: "Any future job we might have."

That tears it: he will do anything to please her, no matter the cost.

He's been told that Miranda Priestly is going places, that she's going to the top. Word has it she's going to be promoted again soon, to Metropolitan, or McAuleys, or Style. But the job she wants, the job she's going to get no matter what it takes, is editor-in-chief of Runway. It's bound to happen sooner or later.

And she wants to take Nigel with her when she goes.

He can't fuck this up.

He's been watching her for years, during his internships and in the newspapers. Everyone watches her, everyone tries to get her attention. This is the first time they've meet, the first time all her focus has been entirely on him, and he's long past reconsidering the merits of his choices. He can't fuck this up. No matter what, he never again wants to feel that horrible gut-wrenching that means he's failed her—and all he's done so far is sit down for an interview. And now that he's standing in front of her, Nigel realizes exactly what people mean when they say Miranda Priestly looks at people like she's going to suck their soul out.

It's scarier than he ever imagined.

And he's already lost part of himself to her that he never realized was there to lose.

He nods, or maybe he smiles. He can't tell; all he knows is that he needs to get out of here, get away from her for just a moment to pull himself back together. His life might depend on it.

"Come to my house this evening," she says. "We'll talk more."

~*~*~

Miranda's house is a post-war apartment in Lenox Hill, and Nigel stares at the door wondering if he's really about to do this. He knows what she wants, what's waiting for him on the other side.

It's a test.

It's a test of his nerve, of his loyalty, of how far he's willing to go for her.

He knocks on the door. She bids him enter.

She's waiting for him, reclining on a velvet couch. He blinks several times, because he's not positive he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing. And then she stands up, and he can't deny it any longer: she's wearing a sheer black wrap, and he can see the lingerie under it. He knew this was coming, and he's still surprised by it. His mind catalogues each piece automatically, appreciating the ensemble and how well it displays and conceals, even as his heart starts to pound and his palms sweat. Unfortunately, it's not in a good way: she might be attractive, but he's never been swayed by an attractive woman and he's not sure how in the world he's going to fake it this time.

"Nigel," she says. It might have been seductive, except that she's too forceful to ever be seductive. Miranda Priestly doesn't seduce, she conquers.

"Hi," he says, and then tries again. "Hello." He offers a weak smile.

She doesn't smile back. She doesn't say anything. Instead, she rises—gracefully, always gracefully; she's probably never had an ungraceful movement in her life—and strides out of the living room.

He follows.

By the time he catches up, she's lying on silk sheets, her wrap artfully displaying quite a bit more skin. His scalp is tight, and he thinks maybe he can smell her. That's foolish, of course: if he's smelling anything, it's just her perfume.

"Do you want—" he starts, but she just glares at him. He tugs at his shirt and begins to unbutton it. His hands are trembling. Maybe she'll think it's arousal. She watches as he undresses, those sharp eyes piecing him and making his hands clumsy. Her own hands wander across her body, and he guessed she's aroused herself—her nipples are stiff and dark, her underwear is stained. When he's down to his shorts, he climbs onto the bed and kneels in front of her.

She stretches out a lazy hand and cups him. He didn't think he'd be able to get hard tonight, but she's got clever hands and she knows just how to caress and hold him. Before he knows it, his hips are jerking and he's panting for breath. He's also closed his eyes somewhere along the way, so when he feels a tongue on his nipple, it's a shock. He jerks back and stares down at her.

But there she is, pulling him back to her, licking his nipple, blowing on it, then taking turns on each side until his knees give way and he collapses to the bed. He can't breathe, and he's not entirely sure it's fear. She pushes him back and straddles him. Her skin is hot, burning, but it's her eyes that set him on fire. She's just looking at him, and after an eternity, he can't stand it any more. He whimpers.

He didn't mean to make any sound, but this whole thing has gotten completely out of control. And then she's back at his nipples, and this time she's nipping at them with teeth so sharp and white that he's almost afraid she'll decide he's dinner. More so than he already is, anyway.

She's holding him down and obviously doesn't need any help—not that he'd know what to do if she did need it—so he just lays there, letting her take what she will. His mind drifts. He's aroused, more so than he can ever remember being, but he's also feeling sort of detached from the whole thing. If he didn't know he was stone cold sober, he'd think he was drunk. Or high. High would be nice right now.

Because she's trailing her tongue down his stomach and tugging down his shorts. She's going to—oh God, she's going to—"Stop," he gasps.

She does.

"Wait," he says. She's staring at him, glaring, she's going to kick him out of bed and blacklist him and he's never going to work in fashion or publishing or on the East Coast—"Let me, please," he says and grasps the edges of her wrap.

She doesn't say anything but she lets him undress her, never taking her eyes off him. The wrap goes—chiffon, with a very innovative neckline, one he's never seen before—and then the lace bra. She can't have missed his shaking hands this time around, but since he's at full mast and purple, maybe she'll think it's nerves. She is a striking woman, after all; any man would be privileged to be in her bed. He has to take a deep breath before he touches her panties, but then he's pulling them down and she's dark down here, not grey at all, and he's staring and gaping and before he can take them off she huffs and tears them off herself. The movement continues as smoothly as if she had practiced it and she tears off his boxers, too. She's not quite naked yet, though, and he reaches for her silk stockings.

She bats his hand away.

He shrinks back. She follows and pushes him down onto his back again, hovering over him for the briefest moment before reaching across to the side table. She picks up a small square and—holy fuck. It's a condom. He completely forgot. He forgot. Or maybe he was in denial.

Then it's on and she's sliding herself down onto him. She's lighter than he expected, balanced on her knees and pushing down on his chest with three fingers. The stockings feel heavenly wrapped around his hips; he's always liked silk. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to relax, waiting for her to move, to speak, to do something.

She doesn't, though. She doesn't say anything, she doesn't do anything, she just sits there and watches him for hours, or possibly days. He keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on his dick, on the fact that for the first time in his life, he's inside a woman. And then, so lightly he's not sure he's not imagining it, she starts to squeeze around him. Soon, however, it's clear that he's not imagining it and his eyes fly open. She flexes and he groans, and then it happens again and again, over and over and over until he thinks he might die. But she doesn't do anything else, and he's getting close and she's just squeezing around him, staring down at him. The inside of his cheek is raw from where he's biting it, and he's not sure how much more of this he can take before he falls apart.

He's not going to give her the pleasure.

He rolls them over and kisses her viciously, using every trick he knows to try and break her resolve. It doesn't work, but at least he's not on his back anymore. He slid out of her when they moved but that doesn't matter; he just shoves her legs apart and presses down onto her. She moves willingly enough, and he fumbles with her trying to get back in, until she finally grabs him and guides him.

Their eyes are locked.

For a moment, neither of them breathe, much less blink. He's fully in, so he starts to move, as slowly as he can, never breaking eye contact. She doesn't turn away either and he rolls his hips, slamming into her, trying to grind any reaction of her he can. After an eternity, she starts to move with him, never faltering, and they speed up, faster and faster, never breaking their mutual gaze. It's intimate and intense and he has no idea why he's here. Neither of them is looking away, even as they slap and crash into each other, even as their breathing speeds up. He's getting close, waves of sensation washing over him, and she's squeezing his ass and they're still looking at each other and then he's spurting inside of her, jerking and crying out as pleasure washes over him.

It isn't until his orgasm is over and she's pushed him off of her that he realizes he looked away first.

~*~*~

Getting dressed is exceedingly awkward. She's lying in bed, watching him with an impassive face and narrowed eyes. He fumbles with his pants and shirt, shoves his shorts and socks into a pocket, jams his feet into his loafers.

He wonders if he's supposed to say something. He wonders if he was supposed to stay. He wonders if it's worth his life to ask. Probably not.

"I'll see you in the morning," she says into the silence. "We'll need to get an early start."

He stares at her, astonished.

She stares back.

Once more, he looks away first and mumbles, "Good night."

He heads for the door but before he opens it he stops. He should just leave, he shouldn't question it, there's nothing to be gained. She's won whatever battle they were fighting. They both knew she would. Regardless of what happened tonight—or maybe because of it—she's going to take him with her when she moves up in the world.

Once it becomes obvious that he's not going to leave yet, she says, "Yes?"

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Neither does she.

Eventually, when he can't stand it anymore, he blurts, "I'm gay." He doesn't look at her. He can't.

She laughs. "Oh, Nigel. I know."


End file.
